


i can see a lot of life in you

by Amber



Series: Create Something Every Day! (October 2018) [22]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputee Derek Hale, Beta/Omega, Bottom Derek Hale, Cooking, Cunnilingus, F/M, Massage, October Prompt Challenge, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Past Braeden/Derek Hale, Pegging, Reunion Sex, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Prompt 29: Sleepy.





	i can see a lot of life in you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/gifts).



> no, _you're_ writing a teen wolf fic in 2018.

"I made you something."

"Derek?" Allison flips her light on even as her other hand is automatically shifting her keys between her fingers to use as a weapon, and there he is. The familiar outline: broad shoulders, gelled hair, one arm. Sitting on the edge of the bed in her New York loft apartment, because she doesn't own a couch. Allison lets herself stop thinking about the fastest way to get a crossbow in her hand. "How did you get in here?"

"Window," he says, thumbing behind him. It doesn't look broken, and her little rooftop garden set up that her landlord pretends he doesn't know about is still on the fourth floor with no fire escape, so the answer isn't very illuminating. Maybe he jumped from one of the other buildings. While holding— 

"Are those... brownies?"

"They're snack bars." Dozens of homemade snack bars, in a clear tupperware container. 

"You made me snack bars." Allison sighs and tosses her keys in a bowl, kicks the door shut behind her, takes off her coat and scarf, unzips her boots. "You could have just left them on my doorstep with a note."

Derek is still, his spine very straight. She knows that tension, she remembers that tension, even after three years on the opposite side of America from Beacon Hills. "I wanted to see you," he admits, not looking at her, looking anywhere but her.

"And there's no way you could, like, find my number or my email and drop a line first," says Allison, sarcastic but also knowing it's kind of true. Derek communicates by doing. He was never the kind of guy who sent **wyd** texts, he just came over. In high school, that had been refreshing. Here, now, it feels... kind of presumptuous? She rolls her eyes, comes over to take the baked goods and store them in her little pantry cupboard above the sink. Which is like, three steps away. Her apartment is... it's not big. "Okay. Thanks? I guess? How are you."

Derek shrugs.

"Big mood," agrees Allison, leaning against her sink to look at him. "So are you here to catch up? Because you have bad news? Or just for sex."

Derek's eyes finally slide back to her, brows drawn down. "You're the one who left Beacon Hills."

"Sex, then," says Allison, because he'd only be that defensive if she was calling him out. Derek tips his chin up, stubbled jaw a stubborn line.

"I'm in heat," he tells her, and that is a surprise. She can't smell it on him. He must read her confusion because he adds: "I'm taking a pretty expensive suppressant. But it doesn't help with ..." he trails off. Derek hates talking about sex, but he's either been to therapy or had a partner willing to really put some emotional work in since she last saw him, because he visibly makes himself continue: "I need to get fucked. And I don't — there's no-one left that I trust for that, back home."

"Not even Scott?" Allison asks, and he breathes a soft snarl because he knows she knows Scott wouldn't want to but would do it anyway. Because he's kind. So Derek will never ask. Scott is always going to be this infected wound between them, and Allison is always going to poke at it just to make him show his teeth, even though it hurts her too, it still hurts her too. "Okay," she relents. "But it's late, and I've had a long day. I've got tomorrow off, so why don't you stay the night?"

He nods. 

"Great. I'm going to shower. Make yourself at home."

Derek apparently takes this as permission to cook, because when she emerges from the bathroom in a towel she has to duck under the cross-apartment extension cord that only gets plugged in when she needs the kitchenette appliances or the stove. He's standing at the latter, stirring something in the only saucepan she owns. Her apartment now smells like cooking onions, but there is also an unspoken _Damn, bitch, you live like this?_ energy in the air that Allison ignores. 

Since there is absolutely no room in her bathroom, sink and shower and toilet all cramped into a tiny square, she does her skin routine out here, moisturizing her legs while Derek watches out of the corner of his eye. When she drops her towel to do her hips and breasts he can't pretend not to be looking. "Allison," he says, a little agonized, and she turns away from him, smiling. 

"What?" she says. "Nothing you haven't seen before." And she's not doing it for him (except she kind of is? Derek always loved to be treated like he was just part of the furniture, liked to sit still in the corner of her room and watch her do her homework or try on outfits.)

She pulls on a tank and pajama shorts, then thick socks and a sweater because her heating isn't great. Combs her long hair out of its bun as she watches him cook. 

"That scar on your abdomen," he says. "That's new."

Leave it to Derek to take a note of her scars when he could be just ogling her bare breasts. "I had a run in pretty early on after I moved here," she says. "You know, just a territory thing. It's fine. We worked it out."

"Okay," says Derek, and dumps a can of tomatoes in the saucepan.

"Do you need me to do anything?" she offers. Thinks about how Stiles always used to say _You need a hand with that_ like it was the funniest thing in the world. But then, having to cut off Derek's arm had given him a pretty dark sense of humor about the whole thing.

"It just needs to stew," he says. His shoulders are tense. She comes a little closer, draws a hand across the span of them to see if he still flinches, but he doesn't. 

Maybe if they were other people they would talk about their lives. But she doesn't want news from home. She's still in touch with her dad, and while he's careful about what he shares, at her request, he keeps her in the loop for anything major. And Lydia fills her in on the gossip in long FaceTime calls. And Scott writes her letters, sometimes, actual snail mail, the romantic idiot. So she's up to date there. And she doesn't want to talk to Derek, about her work, or the pole classes she takes with her friend Lil, or her dispute with her upstairs neighbors who toss their cigarette butts out the window into her little collection of pots and herbs.

"Do you want to see my garden?" she offers instead. 

"You mean, the pots outside?" He must have climbed over them to get in here, duh Allison, but he still nods, wary and curious.

She pulls the window open, climbs on her bed and out. The motion always comes with a nostalgic familiarity, like she's sixteen and sneaking out to see Scott again. It's muggy out, moreso than she expected, the concrete roof still warm beneath her bare feet even this long after dark. Derek climbs out behind her.

"Do you mind if I use some?" he asks, and she gestures for him to go ahead, watches as he sniffs out what he needs in the gathered dark. A handful of basil, some marjoram. Some of what she grows isn't for cooking, but it all has some purpose or another. "They die a lot," she says.

"Rootbound, probably," says Derek, dipping a finger into the soil of one. "You should haul a planter up here."

"Oh, sure, Derek, I'll just do that," Allison responds, and he shrugs like, is it his fault she doesn't have werewolf strength? "Besides, it's probably just the air."

"Maybe," he says, nodding. "The city can be pretty stifling." And then he climbs back inside, to add his handful of herbs to the pot.

Allison leaves the window open, traffic sounds and heat drifting in. Flops back on the bed. "So tell me about your — girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Therapist?" 

Derek glares over at her. "Why don't you tell me about the girl I could smell all over your sheets," he retorts. 

Allison doesn't blush. "Her name is Rosa," she says. "She's a friend of a friend of a friend. We hook up sometimes." She smiles. "Actually, she reminds me a lot of you." Derek snorts at that.

He stirs the food in silence. "Braeden was a bounty hunter," he says eventually, resigned like he knows Allison is going to tease him. He's not wrong. 

"Oh, Derek," she laughs. "You really do have a type."

"Shut up."

"So... why the past tense?" tentative, but she thinks he wouldn't be speaking so easily of her if she'd died.

"She stayed for a while," Derek says. "Saved my life a couple of times. But she had business elsewhere. Prefers to be on the move. So we agreed to let it go."

"Uh huh," says Allison, who has never known Derek Hale to just let anything go in his whole life. "Braeden," she says, curling her toes against the bedspread, tasting the name in her mouth. "Is she cute?" Should she be jealous? Derek sounded jealous, that there had been someone else in her bed, but Allison just can't get that worked up about it. It's good, really. For him to have other women in his life. Especially if they help him learn to talk about his needs. 

"Beautiful," says Derek quietly, reverent. Then looks over like he's concerned: "Not that you aren't—"

Allison laughs. "It's fine. I'm not threatened. Actually, you should give her my number. You know, if she's ever in New York."

Derek doesn't get it for a moment, and then he short circuits briefly, her favorite look on him. Allison smiles.

When Derek serves the chili they don't talk, just eat. He sits next to the bed with the bowl between his knees, and she pets his hair with one hand while she spoons her own into her mouth with the other. It's good, it's really good, and she does tell him that much. He tips his head back to watch her eat what he made with almost more fervor than he'd looked at her naked body. Werewolves.

After, she strips his shirt off, puts him face down on the bed, and works the tension out of his back, as a thank you for dinner. He's a difficult man to massage: she knows that he's never acquiesced to a prosthetic, so his left side doesn't get quite as much use as the right, no matter how much more he works it out. It makes his back a tricking uneven mess of knots, and he growls into the pillows and puts his claws in her bedding as she works over his pressure points relentlessly.

"Allison," he says, muffled, into her pillow, when she's sat back and admiring the puddle she's made of him. "Please."

She knows exactly what he wants, sighs. "Okay. But nothing strenuous until tomorrow, I'm serious."

She'd taken everything with her to New York, and that includes her toys, even if she doesn't use them much. For herself she only really ever needs her Rave, and with partners she usually straps on a slender jelly dildo, if she bothers at all. The Alpha cock has remained saran wrapped and stored since she moved. There's a kink scene in NYC that plays around with roles and gender, but Allison isn't really a part of it.

"Up, please," she says, and "Strip," and while he does she puts down her Liberator, the soft throw that has never left her sleeping in a wet spot, even when she had this Omega gush an unexpected waterfall. The suppressants mean Derek won't be wet, but he still ejaculates sometimes, and she doesn't want to sleep in a puddle of lube, either.

He's naked when he lies down again, on his side, legs casually apart, cock interested enough to lift a little. His obsessively built superhero muscle has softened to something leaner in the years since she last saw him, and he's grown his body hair out. He looks like something out of Playgirl, but she knows he doesn't like to hear how hot he is. Wants to earn his praise.

She unwraps the familiar heavy toy, slips a condom over it. Derek watches her intensely, those incongruous little rabbit teeth of his pressing his lower lip.

"This is what you want, right?" Allison says, smacking the silicon against her palm with a thud. Derek's eyes widen, and he nods. "Say it."

"I want you to fuck me with it," Derek says dutifully.

"With?"

He knows this game. "With the Alpha cock."

Allison is silent, waiting. Derek is silent too, watching her unblinking, a tiny little power struggle — that she wins, because she always wins. 

"I want you to fuck me with your Alpha cock," he admits. "Please."

"Good boy," Allison says, and gets the lube.

It's been a while between them, and they aren't quite in their old rhythm. Derek is just a little more open — emotionally, that is, he's always been a slut for being stretched as wide as possible. But all the noises he used to clench back and grit out come easy now, and when she finishes fingering him slick and turns him on his stomach it's not a fight the way it might once have been. Similarly, there's more confidence now in Allison's movements, her hands sure on his hips. She doesn't overthink what she wants, doesn't hesitate to press a kiss against one pale, muscled ass cheek, doesn't feel awkward about slipping a hand between her thighs to touch herself a little. She doesn't even undress all the way, just takes off her loose pajama shorts. Holds the base of the dildo to her bare cunt instead of using a harness, presses her other hand in the small of his back, and pushes in.

"Oh, fuck," Derek groans, a little broken. "Oh, Allison, fuck."

He says her name so easily. She wonders if he's ever said it accidentally with somebody else.

The thick wolf cock forces its way into Derek. "Don't stop," he keeps saying, scrabbling to try and get traction, thrust himself back further onto it. "Don't stop, don't stop. Give me the knot."

She fucks him a little first, just because it grinds nicely against her clit and because she loves the sight of it, all that silver silicon sliding in and out of his hole. Derek gets incoherently noisy, growls and repetitive grunts as his flesh gives repeatedly with wet sucking sounds. Her thighs slap the back of his. 

He tries to balance on his elbow and stump to get a hand down to his cock, and right as he manages she pops the thickest part of the dildo into him, skewering him deep and full, the flared base nearly flush against his hole. Derek yelps and falls on his face, ass in the air, and comes into his own tight fist.

Allison sits back, quite pleased with herself. Her dildo stays stuck where it is, of course, knotted thoroughly, but part of the benefit of not using a harness is she can leave it in him and kneewalk up the bed alongside him, one hand running along the sweaty curve of his spine. 

"My turn," she demands, and settles into position in front of him. Derek rubs his face muzzily on her open thighs, the texture of his thick scruff a pleasant chafe. He's always sleepy once he's come, but Allison doesn't care. She pulls his hair until he relents and presses his face into her cunt. 

Even a little out of it, even whimpering at the dick still knotting his oversensitive ass, Derek is good at this. He has a strong, eager tongue, and isn't afraid to use his whole face in the pursuit of eating her out. Alison cups the back of his skull and fucks his face, and when she comes with a loud sigh he laps it up, long doggy licks.

"I missed your talented mouth," she admits, petting his hair again. Derek kisses across her pussy to her thigh, then sucks a mark there, and she hums and lets him. 

She takes the cock out of him before they sleep, padding across to the sink to put it in some hot water so she won't forget to wash it tomorrow. Derek lies in her bed and fingers himself lazily, unabashed, watching her move. She gets him a cloth, ties her hair back for the night, turns off the appliances and lights. After a moment's thought, she strips off the rest of her clothes before she rejoins him — it made putting on pajamas pointless, but she'd forgotten how hot he runs, all that warm skin and the air from outside. He nuzzles her breasts happily as they curl back up together.

"You always smell so good," he says, sucking on a nipple idly, and it peaks in his mouth even though he knows it's more for his enjoyment than hers.

"Mmm." She shifts against him, all that fuzzy hair against her orgasm-sensitized skin just a pleasant, soothing sensation. He's curled his whole arm over the dip of her waist, heavy up her lower back, and it makes her feel safe. He's a Hale and a werewolf and an _asshole_ , but god, she's really missed him. "Stay a while," she offers. "Until the heat breaks. I'll look after you."

"Says the girl with nothing but canned food in her shitty apartment," Derek grumbles. Bites her nipple so she digs her nails into his neck, and both of them groan, sleepy enjoyment. 

"Stooop," mumbles Allison. "I'm tired. More sex tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Derek agrees, settling in against her collarbone. It must be strange for him, here with the scents and sounds of the city so loud to his werewolf ears — it was strange to Allison, her first few nights, and she doesn't have super senses. But despite that, he falls asleep first, long even whuffles across her chest. She combs affectionate fingers through his hair, thinking about how strange the world is, until she, too, falls asleep.


End file.
